


Untitled (Revelations)

by ruethereal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finally understood how the term "voice of an angel" came about. (Obviously, he knows full well that angels speak like dying supersonic cats.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled (Revelations)

Dean must be cracking. More so than usual, or ever, anyway.

Sex doesn't mean much to Dean. Hasn't, or can't, whatever. A simple release, and it's one of the few -- and frustratingly infrequent -- ways for him to feel normal and human. It's messy but simple. Once he's charmed his way out of the dazed and blissful girl's front door, he knows damn well he won't be seeing her again. Once he's made his way to whichever grody motel he and Sam happen to be staying at, he knows damn well a cold beer and a scalding shower (in no particular order, and if there happens to be hot water at all) eradicate all traces. No grit and taste of lipstick, no stench of flowery sweat.

But this isn't simple. With Cas. And yet it was impossibly easy.

Never mind the self-inflicted mental beatings as to how and why and, seriously, how the hell Dean finds the pouty gum-flapping bastard under him and between his legs so often.

After that initial moment of wry humility -- because no, Castiel isn't junkless -- Dean has grown a strange brand of fondness for the angel. Strange, not only because of the fact that Castiel is very much a dude of a non-human. But how many times has Dean said he prefers non-virgins. And Cas was a strange brand of virgin.

Dean has never dabbled in the sweet gooey end of the love-making spectrum. Maybe if he were a sadist, he would take advantage of the angel's sexual retardation. But this not-simple thing with Cas was just another means of feeling human. After all, Dean never thought he'd have to teach someone how to be intimate.

Doubtless, he's an excellent teacher.

Like teaching Cas how to be touched. The crook of an elbow, strange and simple.

_That's making my shoulders shift._

_Well, that's a start._

A wiry bicep.

_Hm._

_'Hm'?_

_Yes, just 'hm.'_

A taut shoulder. A sweep along the collarbone. Over to a shoulder blade.

_That's making my calves tense._

Dean wonders if angel feathers are as warm as bare human skin.

Like teaching Cas how to express if and when Dean does something to actually rattle his pearly gates.

And none of that brooding Batman growling that sounds confused half the time. But real, weak, acceptably confused incoherence.

_What is -- oh -- um -- how are you doing --_

Dean knew they'd made progress when words left altogether.

Sighs half the time, gasps the other half. Brisk and commanding, the way tornadoes kidnap gingers and their terriers from Kansas.

Then came the moans. Deep, from the belly an angel doesn't have to fill, and therefore hungry. Voracious and vulnerable.

And Dean finally understood how the term "voice of an angel" came about. (Obviously, he knows full well that angels speak like dying supersonic cats.)

Dean isn't the sentimental type. So this thing with Cas works especially well in its own ways. Because there's always something new, something strange and different whenever -- if ever -- they wind up naked together.

Like Cas being the one to initiate a kiss for the first time. Like Cas grunting 'God damn' for the first time. Like Cas managing to clamber on top of Dean in the backseat without maiming one or both of them. Nearly every time was a first time for something, and not only for Castiel. Because for the first time in a long time, Dean wasn't doing things -- or letting things be done to him -- selfishly, to prove something.

What was the point in mystery and bravado if Castiel couldn't recognize a sleazy act to get in bed if it slapped him in the face.

Dean isn't sentimental. But he knows how the lines between the angel's eyebrows feel against his lips, how the angel's perpetual five-o'clock shadow feels against his jaw. He knows that by some freak angel-vessel biology, Castiel doesn't have a smell of his own, so when they're lying there, the both of them panting but Dean the only one sweating, Cas just smells like Dean himself.

Dean's probably a narcissist because he likes that.

But he's definitely cracking because if and when Castiel pops up, fully dressed and muttering about God and demons to him and Sam, Dean wonders why it doesn't show on the divine monkey's face -- why he cares at all that it doesn't show.

Cas may sadly be the closest thing he's had to a girlfriend in ages. There's the sex, but none of the annoying outpourings of adoration. And Dean doesn't really know why he wishes it was there. Maybe. Just a little. Some acknowledgment, at least, that a puny insignificant human has somehow made the beast with two backs, one of the backs having enormous wings.

"Can't you do this thing up properly?"

Castiel peers down as Dean fiddles with Jimmy's loosened necktie.

"Afraid other humans will start checking me out?"

His jibes have become more frequent and even natural now. Luckily, Dean takes little offense and merely chuckles.

"Worrying about that is pretty damn low on my to-do list, Cas."

Because when it's just the two of them, hot slick skin and feral groans, Castiel's hand always finds the brand on Dean's shoulder. Dean swears he can feel it burning anew each time, but it's a good ache. Like an annoying form of adoration.

Dean probably isn't a masochist. But Dean likes that.


End file.
